


the thing about love is

by capsize (copenhagenborn)



Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - To All the Boys I've Loved Before Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dumb boys being in love, Homophobia in sports, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Polyamory Negotiations, and an original character - Freeform, brief cameos of other players, brief mention of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 06:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15943766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copenhagenborn/pseuds/capsize
Summary: “There uh. Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.” Mitch says quietly as he pulls away just enough to meet his eyes, “I know we had that thing in the O, and like, I know we said we didn’t wanna try before we were established in the league, but I’ve been thinking – or well, actually it’s – “And Dylan wants to listen, because whatever Mitch is saying sounds so important, and his face is doing that thing he always does doing intermission scrums when the Leafs are Leafing again and Mitch thinks he alone can put the team on his back and win them the game.But Dylan’s eyes are on the porch and the backdoor which Connor is coming out of, frowning and with his own letter tucked underneath his arm.He acts on impulse then, leaning down and whispering a quick apology against Mitchy’s mouth before he’s pressing his lips against Mitch’s.





	the thing about love is

It starts with Josie’s letter.

Dylan comes back from the dry-cleaners with his and Matty’s tuxes in his arms when he finds it lying on the kitchen counter.

The thing is this, handwritten letters aren’t uncommon in the Strome household. At least they haven’t been since Ryan and Johnny decided to make the living room wedding central and direct all written correspondence to his childhood house in Lorne Park.

So Dylan’s found plenty of handwritten replies lying scattered across the counter – previous teammates politely trying to phrase their rejection so it doesn’t quite sound as bad as “Fuck you for not resigning with the team, what are we supposed to do now, dickhead?” but still keeps the message; distant relatives invited out of convention who doesn’t quite understand the event is a wedding reception, and not just a celebration of their long-term friendship – but this one is different.

Dylan folds the tuxes over the nearest chair making sure the crease is naturally placed before picking up the letter. It’s an aged ivory, soft to touch and every bit as familiar as the remaining stack of envelopes that’s tucked away in his desk.

Josie’s letter wasn’t the first one Dylan ever wrote – that belonged to someone else.

But it had been where Dylan perfected the art of writing love letters – how to put his feelings into words and actually express something that wasn’t just, “You look cute and you’re sort of good at hockey, but I’ve seen you eat a bugger when our moms weren’t watching, so you’re also kind of gross?”

Dylan had met Josie at the one non-hockey camp his mother had forced him on – “It’ll be good for you, honey.” She had told him with a sigh when Dylan threw his second tantrum about the unfairness that his brother didn’t have to go with him, “Maybe you’ll even make a couple of friends who doesn’t live in the neighbourhood.” – and while they didn’t quite get married with rings of liquorice and flower crowns in their hair, Dylan did come home with deep feelings for Josie and how she could swim faster than everyone in the year above them. 

So Dylan had put pen to paper and filled two pages with his jumbled feelings about butterflies in his stomach and that one sticky kiss they had shared, before closing the envelope and writing out the address of the campsite in his neatest handwriting.

Dylan never planned on sending it – any of the letters, really – is the thing. The letter wasn’t for her, not in the way you usually write a letter for someone. It was to allow Dylan to deal with his crush, to put his feelings into words and let himself remember how he felt when he was around her. A way to cope with the feelings inside of him that he didn’t quite know how to handle.

It wasn’t supposed to be seen by anyone, her or otherwise.

Seeing it lying there on the counter with the ‘Return to sender’ stamp across the front is a clear indicator that someone did see it, that someone _sent_ it – took it from his room, bought a bunch of stamps and then mailed it, without his permission.

There’s a part of Dylan that wants to freak out. Because Dylan isn’t a calm person, and despite how dead he looks on film, Dylan’s always had a tendency to strong reactions when things go wrong. 

But Dylan’s life has never been easy, and lately with the constant flux of his location and the people entering and leaving his life, Dylan has become great at prioritising his problems until he’s in the right conditions to handle them properly.

Besides, Dylan’s got a wedding to attend, and discomfort has never been more in season.

 

It’s still early in the afternoon when the first group of guests starts to arrive.

And while Dylan might be great with people his own age, he’s never really felt comfortable around older people he doesn’t have anything in common with. So he becks off greeting duty and leaves it to Matty and Ryan McLeod who haven’t been doing anything but hanging out on the couch and talking shit behind his back.

Instead he goes to garden to set up the chairs for tonight’s dinner. It’s not supposed to rain, so at some point later they’re meant to rearrange everything, so they won’t have to worry about doing it in the morning before the ceremony.

Dylan already knows it won’t happen that way, that someone will get too drunk or Ryan will decide it doesn’t fit into his neat schedule where the weekend is planned down to the second to fully optimise their time.

So it doesn’t really matter if he takes a nap folded up on three chairs in the middle of the day, falling asleep to the low chatter of Matty and Ryan who somehow managed to escape the hell that is their grandparents and instead made their way up in the old cherry tree that used to be his and Mikey’s – no matter what Ryan has to say about it.  

While Dylan’s always been able to fall asleep anywhere, he’s also a really light sleeper.

So when someone clears their throat right above him and tags on a soft call of his name, Dylan wakes up abruptly, tumbling out of the chairs and onto the dry grass beneath him.

“I’m almost through the stack.” He slurs tiredly, struggling his way back on the chair before blinking his eyes open, only to see – “Mitch?”

He squints up at the guy leaning against one of the chairs, a stupid look in Mitch’s eyes as he laughs, “Hello Dyls,” he says amused and sits down in the chair next to Dylan.

And maybe he should be surprised that Mitch somehow found his way to his brother’s wedding without an official invitation or any possible way of knowing when and where it would be at, but. It’s Mitchy. Mitch who’s talked himself into events more exclusive than his with nothing but his smile and a well-timed compliment, Mitch who never went hungry during the season; Mitchy who always seemed to find a way when he wanted to.

“Crashing a Strome wedding,” Dylan tsks with a small smile of his own, wiping his dirtied palms on his jeans, “What are you doing here, Marns?”

“More like Tavares-Strome, eh?”

Dylan frowns, “Nah, for sure it’s going to be Strome-Tavares. Gonna be a pain when both of them are traded to Arizona though, I’m not sure the jersey could fit it.”

Mitchy looks thoroughly indignant on behalf of Toronto, but Dylan notices the soft lines of his eyes as he splutters, “Johnny is a Leafs, Dyls. He came home to play for his childhood team, and 91 will hang from the rafters when he retires after our fifth cup win.”

“Only five, Mitchy? Are you gonna be bumming it the next two years?” Dylan laughs.

He’s missed this, sparring with Mitchy who gets so worked up about anything when it comes to Leafs or Knights hockey. Or maybe Dylan’s just missed Mitch and his ridiculous laugh, fingers touching his mouth too much when he tries to explain how everyone but him is wrong before he leaves in a livid rage.

“Nah, but like. You have to leave room for surprise, eh?” Mitchy smiles back, his eyes sparkling as he bumps Dylan’s knee with his own.

It’s pure reflex to reach out for his thigh and pull him closer, an arm across his shoulders until Mitch is just one long line of heat against his side. There’s a beat where they’re just sitting there, pressed against each other and soaking in the warmth, and then Dylan looks down at Mitchy’s hands in his lap, one of them clutching a familiar piece of paper.

For a second Dylan thinks John might actually have invited some of his new teammates, but the writing on the front is too familiar and the colour of the envelope is identical to what Josie’s letter had come in.

Dylan sighs quietly. “What do you have there, Marns?” he asks softly, his voice shaking as he bumps their shoulders together until Mitch is sitting upright, looking anywhere but at Dylan.

“It’s uh. You probably already know, right?”

“Yeah, I thought you might have gotten one.” He says on an exhale as he stands up from the chair, Mitch following not long after.

Mitchy’s letter had been the easiest one to write.

It was written the day after they left Helsinki, and while it had been a quick write, it wasn’t rushed. Arriving back in Canada, Dylan had already known how he felt about Mitch. How the intense feelings that had been gnawing away at him for so long hadn’t been hatred or something just as negatively charged. But something much purer – a mixture of admiration, kin and a shared love for hockey – resulting in a fierce type of love that still burned strong in the deepest part of Dylan’s heart.

“Listen, I don’t know why you got it.” Dylan starts out with a grimace, “I mean, I wrote it for sure. But it wasn’t meant to be sent out, none of them were.”

Mitchy frowns, “Them? I’m not your one and only Stromer?” he says with an over-dramatic pout, but his eyes are twinkling. “I thought we were hashtag boys, Dyls.”

He can’t help but laugh, pulling Mitch in until he’s flushed against his chest, resting his head on Mitchy’s lower one, “We’ll always be boys, Mitch. Don’t be fucking stupid.”

Mitch lets out a deep exhale against Dylan’s chest as if bracing himself for something that’s going to hurt. “There uh. Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.” He says quietly as he pulls away just enough to meet his eyes, “I know we had that thing in the O, and like, I know we said we didn’t wanna try before we were established in the league, but I’ve been thinking – or well, actually it’s – “

And Dylan wants to listen, because whatever Mitch is saying sounds so important, and his face is doing that thing he always does doing intermission scrums when the Leafs are Leafing again and Mitch thinks he alone can put the team on his back and win them the game.

But Dylan’s eyes are on the porch and the backdoor which Connor is coming out of, frowning and with his own letter tucked underneath his arm.

It’s not that Dylan didn’t know Connor would be at the wedding, that Connor regularly plays with Ryan in the NHL, and that Dylan himself had sent out his invitation with his updated Toronto address on it. But somehow, he hadn’t quite connected the two to actually seeing Connor today.

He acts on impulse, leaning down and whispering a quick apology against Mitchy’s mouth before he’s pressing his lips against Mitch’s, and. It’s a solid kiss, they’ve done it enough that there’s no awkward teeth knocking together, or ounces of saliva being transferred from one mouth to the other.

And like, Mitch has always been a great kisser, had been back in the O when they were fumbling through handjobs and teeth-filled blowies. But the way he holds Dylan’s jaw and tilts his face until he can reach and make the kiss better, small swipes with his tongue until Dylan’s toes are curling, is a new development – and Dylan is fucking grateful for whoever picked up where he left off with kissing Mitch.

They’re panting, flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes as they pull back. And just for a second Dylan lets himself get lost in Mitch and the thought of being with him in a real adult relationship that didn’t include Dylan being frustratingly jealous of how well the Leafs are doing, or Mitch’s place in the league.

But Connor is coming up to them now, apparently not discouraged by their lengthy make-up session with an even bigger frown. So Dylan leans down to place another kiss on Mitch’s cheek and whispers, “Follow my lead, okay? Just, do this for me and I’ll promise you we can talk when the weekend is done, please.”

And Mitch still has his back to Connor, not knowing how or why Dylan’s acting this way, but Mitch – always with the assist – just nods, giving him an odd look as he says, “Sure, Dyls. Whatever you need.”

 

Because if Mitch’s letter had been easy to write, Connor’s had been anything but.

Dylan doesn’t remember when he fell in love with Connor, but he usually cites it around the first time they hit the ice together. Connor who was a year ahead of him and already considered a generational talent guaranteed to go first in their draft two years later.

Connor was different in ways the people Dylan had played with hadn’t been; he was serious about things Dylan didn’t care about and stern when it came to practice, pushing Dylan to be better and shouting himself hoarse when the team fucked up.

“Doesn’t it bother you that we keep losing?” he says one night, stuck in a hotel room after yet another shitty loss to the fucking Knights. “It’s like no one cares that we suck.”

And Dylan doesn’t really know the guy, first couple of weeks after joining the Otters and being stuck with their top forward because, ‘Your chemistry seems to be great, Stromer. You’re a lucky kid, eh?’ but he thinks it’s unfair. Because Dylan do care, he’s too far into his hockey career that if he sucks now, he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with his life when juniors end.

But Connor was the only one from their team on the scoreboard tonight and he still think they suck, so Dylan’s not really sure what he’s allowed to say. ‘I played well too? Didn’t you notice? Assists count as much as goals, you know.’ So he doesn’t even try, instead he distracts him, offering up alternatives of what they can do in London, Ontario that steadily gets weirder until they’re curled up on the same bed, Connor laughing so hard his cheeks are getting red.

And maybe that’s when Dylan truly falls in love with him, winded and out of breath as he chugs another purple Gatorade, looking at Dylan like the best damn thing in the entire world. “We’ll get them next time, eh?”

“Yeah Davo, for sure.”

Dylan had started the letter that night, Connor sleeping on his chest and hotel napkins crumbled around them with words that didn’t quite describe what Dylan felt for him.

Dylan didn’t finish the letter though. He doesn’t remember whether exhaustion or lack of words came first, but Dylan went to bed with a half-finished letter tucked between his chem book and whatever shitty DVD his billet brother had said he should watch.

The thing about feelings though, is that they tend to change when you spent enough time with someone, twisting and evolving into something entirely new. So whenever Dylan got close to finishing his letter – to figuring out his feelings for Connor and actually making steps towards getting over him – something else popped up demanding that he include it.

Dylan had thought he would have finished it after the draft, that some distance between him and Connor would clarify whatever feelings he had, that he finally could put it into writing and leave the letter where it should be with the other four.

But it had taken until only a couple of months ago when Dylan could final place the final edition of the letter in the box with the others, Connor’s address written neatly on the front.

 

Connor steps up beside them, finally visible to Mitch who watches him with a small frown and flushed cheeks.

“Connor, hey. I didn’t see you there,” he says softly and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder with the one hand Dylan isn’t still holding. “I don’t know what you saw but –“

And Dylan can already imagine Mitch explaining Dylan’s weird behaviour because Mitch and Connor have become oddly friendly since they both joined the NHL, closer in a way Dylan didn’t expect them to. But Connor is the reason Dylan needed to kiss Mitch, why he needs Mitch to pretend that there is actually something between them other than Mitch’s pathological need for affection and Dylan’s desperation to not look pathetically alone.

Because if Connor’s read the letter and he brought it to his brother’s wedding for them to talk about, then Dylan’s not sure what he’s going to do.

So instead Dylan squeezes Mitch’s hand and paints a bright smile on his face, “It’s new you know, we didn’t want to steal the spotlight away from the grooms, but when the timing is right, you can’t really help yourself, eh?”

And he can see the twin frowns on their faces, Connor turning to scowl at Mitch who just shrugs in return and finally lets the hand on his shoulder fall. Mitch shuffles his feet until he’s not really touching any of them, just hovering awkwardly in the middle as he looks between them, for once unsure how to fill the silence.

Connor looks to be clenching his teeth painfully as he nods once, eyes still on Mitch as he says, “Yeah, the right timing, for sure.” His voice grim as he watches Mitch stutter through a shrug, like ‘what do you want me to say?’

Dylan frowns, because there’s something going on between the two of them, something weird that he can’t quite put his finger on. But Dylan isn’t sticking around long enough to find out, happy for any distraction that gets him out of talking more about these stupid letters.

“You know, it’s been great meeting up with you guys, but like. I have groomsman’s duties to take care of, so I gotta go, bye!” And then he flees, turning around sharply and making a bee line for the door before disappearing into the house.

 

He doesn’t really have groomsman’s duties – or at least not yet – so he makes his way to his bedroom, only to find Matty and Ryan lying on his bed.

“Don’t you have your own room, like in this house or something?” Dylan says with a sigh, sounded tired as he goes straight for the boxes stashed in his closet.

“I might, but Ryan likes yours better.” Matty says with a shrug as he pulls Ryan closer until his head is resting on Matty’s chest, a lone hand running through his hair.

“You know, I’ve probably slept here more than you have this year,” Ryan pipes up unhelpfully.

“Hmm?” Dylan hums absently, pulling down one of the cardboard boxes to look through it, “What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t quite remember where he put the letters. After writing Connor’s, he felt like he was over his letter writing ways, that Connor was the last piece of his teenage crushes and with his, the tradition could be put away. So after coming home from another disappointing playoffs exit, Dylan had stashed the box of letters somewhere in the closet before leaving for vacation with some of the Coyotes in hopes of finally moving past all of the letters.

Matt makes a noise of annoyance, pulling Dylan’s attention back to the pair on the bed.

“Yeah, mom still won’t let us sleep in the same bed.” He says with a huff, leaning down to place a kiss on Ryan’s forehead. “It’s kinda dumb really, not like it’s going to stop us.”

“Please don’t.” Dylan whines, tugging down a box marked ‘private’.

“Your springs don’t creak as much, did you know?” Matt continues uncaringly, smirking down at Ryan who’s turning just the slightest shade of red but mirroring his smirk.

“ _Jesus_ , Matty!” Dylan cries, whipping his head back to look at them in disgust, his hands continuing to upend the box, “Are you even eighteen? Like for sure Ryan isn’t. You’re too young to talk like that.”

And Ryan, annoying as always grins down at Dylan, “I turn nineteen in September, Dyls.” He tells him unhelpfully, watching with glee as Dylan turn back to go through another box, “Hey, what are you looking for?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Matty adds in the same obnoxious tone, moving them around until they’re sitting on the edge of the bed, Ryan in his lap.

“It’s _nothing_. Fuck off,”

“Oh, so it’s not your secret love letters to your bajillion of boyfriends?”

“It’s not –“ Dylan freeze, his hands dropping whatever shit he’d had in them. He turns around slowly, watching both of them with careful eyes. “How did you know about that?”

Ryan shrugs, but Matty grins happily as he says, “Ryan found them one time he spent the night.”

“You _what_.” Dylan says, and it’s not even a question. He already knows Matty isn’t kidding, because nothing is fucking sacred when it comes to Ryan and Matty.

“You put them in a box labelled ‘private’, what did you want me to do, Dylan?” Ryan whines pathetically, burrowing deeper into Matty’s chest, an indignant look in his eyes as if Dylan is wrong in questioning him.

“That’s not –“ Dylan splutters, pushing the boxes back in the closet, not caring to put them back in their proper places before standing up, “You can’t just go through other people’s stuff like that!”

“I practically live here,” Ryan says with a roll of his eyes, “Besides, Matty was the one who sent them.”

“Did not!” Matt huffs before conceding with a soft sigh, “Only because you bet me I wouldn’t do it.”

Dylan’s still a bit lost on the fact that neither his brother nor his boyfriend have any understanding of privacy; that they found his _personal_ letters, decided to read them and then – “You fucking sent them?!”

Ryan shrugs, still leaning casually against Matty’s chest, looking nothing but relaxed, “I mean, you did see the returned letter down on the counter, eh?”

“And like, Davo came by looking for you with his in his hands.”

“I don’t really know why you are asking that when you already know the answer.”

“I don’t know,” Dylan starts sharply as his breath starts to come out quicker, almost an angry pant as he scowls at them, “Maybe I had hoped my stupid brother and his stupid boyfriend hadn’t been stupid enough to take private things of mine and fucking send them off.” He bites out angrily, but neither of them seems to react to his animosity.

“You have to use a different word other than stupid, otherwise your point is getting lost in the redundancy of repetition.”

“Hey, that sounds really smart, Ryan.” Matty chips in with a wide grin.

“Thanks babe, Matt’s doing this course in non-fiction writing and – “

“Ryan, can I have a moment with my brother?” Dylan cuts in sharply, glaring at the pair of them who looks nothing but happy as they sit there smiling at each other.

They both blink at Dylan’s interruption, “I mean you could,” Ryan says leniently, shuffling a bit in Matty’s lap until he can look back at him with a frown, “but he’s just going to tell me about it when you, so like, again with the redundancy, Dyls.”

“Fucking get out Ryan!”

Ryan huffs but does get off and leaves the room with an eye roll.

Dylan waits until the door slams shut behind him before turning to Matty with thundering eyes, “What did you do about the last letter?”

Matty lays back, conveniently cutting off their eye contact. He hums softly, folding his arms behind his head as he says, “I don’t think I remember how many letters there were.”

“Fucking cut the shit, Matty.” Dylan growls as he jumps on the bed to pin him down. And while Dylan’s usually the bigger guy in any of his friend groups, Matty has always been close to him in size. So Dylan knows the dirty moves, how to pin his hips and force him down before Matty can start to throw him off, until Matty is huffing and crying out ‘uncle’. Dylan doesn’t let up, “We both know there were five letters, and so far I’ve only heard back about three of them, and I know what’s happened to the fourth.”

“Which one, eh?” Matty says with a smirk only to whine when Dylan squeeze his wrists hard enough to grind the bones together. “Fuck alright! All of them had addresses on them, okay?!”

And Dylan already knew that, “That’s great Matty,” Dylan says with a small smile, letting up just the tiniest bit on the wrists, “Maybe the post office just hasn’t returned it yet –“

“But since Mitchy lives in Toronto I thought it might be easier just to give it to him directly.” Matty interrupts him, a reddish tint to his cheeks as he stares up at the ceiling.

“That’s. I don’t really care about that, just please tell me you mailed the others.”

There’s a beat where Matt doesn’t move his eyes from that one spot that still have a bit of leftover grey from the room’s last paint job. And Dylan knows that look, knows that pointed silence where Matty refuses to move his entire body in protest.

“Matt, what did you do with the fifth letter?” Dylan asks slowly, one hand taking a hold of his chin and pulling until he meets his eyes head on, shaky and worried against Dylan’s steely gaze.

“Dyls, please bro. I – I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal, you know?”

“ _Matthew Strome!_ ” Dylan screams in frustration, leaning over until he’s just lying next to Matty, hands pulling desperately at his own hair. “What were you thinking, you fuck?”

“I mean, I couldn’t just _not_ do it, you know? And like, there was a blowjob on the line.” Matty whines, rolling over until his head is resting on Dylan’s shoulder, watching him with big sad eyes.

“He’s your fucking boyfriend, and you’re eighteen years old. You probably get like five blowjobs _a day_!”

Matty frowns as he pulls back a little, “I mean, for sure, on average. But like, consistency is key, Dylan.”

When Dylan doesn’t react any further than huffing out another breath and rolling onto his side, his back to Matty, he continues, “I knew the address on it was wrong, and like, shipment to New York is kind of pricey bud, so I just.”

There’s a beat where Matt looks the most sorry Dylan’s ever seen him, but they both know what’s coming and Dylan’s never been good with ripping off the band aid. “I just, I crossed out the address and put it into their mail box, okay?”

Dylan exhales deeply and throws out an arm and a leg in hopes of actually hurting Matty. “I fucking hate you, you know.”

“I know Dyls,” Matty concedes in a slow drawl, “but like, at least it wasn’t on their wedding day, you know?”

“Because the night of the rehearsal dinner is so much better, thank you Matt.”

 

The dinner itself goes – fine.

There’s a lot of planning between Dylan’s freak out and when the guests start to arrive at the venue, and somehow Dylan still manages to not once meet John’s eye.

Someone from John’s wedding party isn’t coming until the wedding, so Dylan pulls Mitch from a table filled with Oilers players and drags him to where he’s sitting with the rest of the groomsmen and their partners.

And maybe Dylan should have thought about bringing a plus one knowing Connor was coming, someone to distract him when the tightness in chest gets too much and the shortness of breath makes him dizzy and close to stumbling over his feet. But Dylan hadn’t thought this would happen, hadn’t thought that he would need to confront the very much non-platonic feelings he has for Connor – feeling he had hoped to keep a secret until they no longer hurt.

Instead, Dylan has Mitch.

Maybe it isn’t fair to use Mitch like that – like a crutch for Dylan inability to deal with his feelings – but Mitch has always fitted so perfectly into every aspect of Dylan’s life. Even now surrounded by a mixture of players he’s never met outside of the rink and family friends Dylan was supposed to introduce him to but never got around to, Mitch seems to fit right in as he laughs with one of John’s cousins, talking about the one of two weird stories he knows about the guy.

Mitchy and him work, is the thing.

And he knows it’s unfair to put that up against the complexity of Connor, but he can’t help it, watching Mitch wrestle Matty into a weak chokehold, both wearing matching grins as Ryan records it from the side.

Dylan goes to the bar to get drinks for the table just as the last speech winds down, still stuck on the way Mitch had smiled at him during his speech as he runs into someone, spilling their drink, “Oh shit man, I’m sorry about that, let me – Connor?”

Connor looks up briefly, a small smile on his lips as he reaches for a couple of napkins to dab at his shirt, “Never looking where you’re going, eh?”

Dylan turns to the bar to place his order and ask for a glass of club soda that he hands to Connor, “You always did prefer red, huh?” he smiles tightly, watching as Connor tries to get the wine out of his white dress shirt.

Connor snorts, “Well, white tasted like shit coming from the box, so can you really blame me?”

Dylan nods in concession, all too well remembering the shitty box wines they used to drink in juniors, chugging sangria like it was beer – “It’s not for you, Dyls.” Andre had whined, pulling the box from Dylan’s hands and placing it back on the kitchen counter, “It’s for the _girls_.”

Connor exhales deeply, seemingly giving up on getting rid of the stain and instead turning to Dylan with a soft smile, “I know Mitch tried to bring it up with you, with the letters and everything, but I really think we need to talk –“

Dylan kind of panics at that, because he still doesn’t know what to say when Connor eventually shuts him down – his aching heart so thoroughly exposed on those ivory pages, and all of them now in the hands of the one person who could hurt Dylan the most.

So when John comes by and touches his shoulder, smiling apologetic to a frowning Connor as he asks if he can borrow Dylan for a moment, he quickly follows him into one of adjacent rooms currently being used as a coat room.

 

Dylan doesn’t bother with small talk, they’re too familiar with each other for that, and they’re not here to fill the silence with awkward conversation.

John pulls out the envelope, ivory stark against the darkness of his suit pocket and the Leafs blue pocket square. Because of course John’s as obsessed with the team as Mitch has been these last three years, and of course John got the letter and of course he’d read it – all of Dylan’s embarrassing emotions about his brother’s boyfriend.

There’s a part of Dylan that doesn’t regret writing the letter, mostly because it wasn’t written for John – especially not _this_ John who’s been a part of his family for years and has never been anything but a brother to him – but also because John’s letter wasn’t really about romantic feelings, is the thing.

John came into his life at a time where Dylan desperately needed something that wasn’t Otters hockey or Connor McDavid. John who was a good Toronto boy drafted in the first round and already a leading centre in the NHL, Johnny who had a gold medal from Sochi sharing the ice with Sidney fucking Crosby. But maybe most importantly, John who was a dating a boy in the National Hockey League and didn’t fear for his life every time he stepped on the ice.

Looking back, Dylan knows he wasn’t in love with John.

There might have been a crush in that weird way Dylan got around good-looking guys who gave him the time of the day and didn’t focus on the fact that he played on McDavid’s wing. But most of it had been seventeen-year-old Dylan mistaking fierce admiration and deep respect for love, because that was what he knew, what he could deal with.

“I’m.” Dylan starts nervously, shuffling his feet as he leans against one of the tables filled with coats, “I was young, and Ryan had just brought you home, so it wasn’t like it really meant anything. But –“

“I don’t care,” John cuts him off, smiling softly as he hands over the letter. “I thought you might want it back though.”

Dylan frowns but accepts the letter with shaking hands, “Did Ryan read it?”

John snorts, chuckling softly as he shakes his head, “No, I – I didn’t want to do that to you.”

And Dylan guesses that’s kind of him, to spare him from his brother’s anger and the disappointed looks he’s sure to get when it reaches his mother. But something must be showing on his face because John frowns and reaches out to squeeze Dylan’s shoulder.

“I’m not saying that he couldn’t see it, Dylan.” He says patiently, nudging him until his shoulders falls back and away from his ears, “There’s nothing in that letter I’m embarrassed about, nothing I wouldn’t want him to know. Dylan, I – _thank_ you for writing those things, it means a lot to know you already thought that much about me back then.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” John says softly, watching the light flush spreading over Dylan’s cheeks as he takes in the words, “I didn’t show him because I thought you may not be the one who sent the letter, and perhaps I wasn’t even supposed to read it?”

Dylan nods, finally looking up at John who smiling back at him. “That’s. Yeah, something like that.”

John seems to understand, pulling Dylan into a hug and wrapping his arms around him.

The Strome’s aren’t a tactile family. Despite how clinging both Dylan and Matty might be, Ryan’s always been a bit reserved, preferring to stand back and watch people rather than engaging in vivid physical affection. In a way, Dylan had thought John would be the same, only touchy whenever Ryan was around and didn’t mind the PDA. But John likes touching, always leaving a casual arm around someone’s shoulders, a fist bump here and a nudge there.

“You know that was supposed to be a love letter, right?” Dylan asks after a beat, pulling away from their embrace to meet John’s eyes.

But John doesn’t look surprised, instead he just shrugs and smiles softly, “That wasn’t how I took it, but I mean, you’re the author, eh?”

Dylan rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing as John guides him back to the room. Ryan’s there immediately, taking John’s hand and scowling at Dylan for stealing away his fiancé, “Jesus, Ry. Why don’t you just request the trade already?”

 It’s not really a joke anymore though.

Dylan knows John had thought about signing with the Oilers just for the chance to play with Ryan again, knows that Lou offered to get Ryan back to the Isle if it meant he would stay, knows that Ryan had to firmly announce that neither the Leafs nor the Oilers could afford both of them, so why didn’t he just sign with the Leafs, “At least then you’re in Canada, for Christ’s sake.”

Ryan swears at him, but someone is calling their names from the parent-table, so Dylan slips away through the crowd.

 

Dylan and Mitch leave in the third wave of people, when only the young part of the family is left and drinking steadily.

Dylan wouldn’t say he’s drunk, he’s _tipsy_ if anything, but there’s a giddy feeling of glee inside him, full of hope because if John and Ryan made it work, why couldn’t Dylan do the same? Why couldn’t Dylan do that with _Mitch_?

There’s a lull in conversation when they reach the hotel Mitch is apparently staying at – “The Oilers booked a bunch of rooms, and I didn’t know how busy you would be, so it just made sense to stay with them,” – It’s not really a fancy hotel, Lorne Park is a small town and the tourist business isn’t one of its highest priorities.

For a second Dylan lets himself imagine what it would have been like had he known Mitch was coming and had accepted Dylan’s offer of staying with him over the weekend. Mitch following Dylan home and sharing his bed for the first time in what feels like forever. Dylan waking up next to Mitch who would smile sleepily and tell him to go back to sleep, “It’s not until eleven, Dyls. We still have a couple of hours.”

Mitch who is looking prettier than usual, standing in the bright light of the moon and dragging his feet like he doesn’t want the night to end either.

Dylan can’t help but lean in and press his lips against Mitch’s, one hand cradling his face as he –

And then Mitch pulls away, a soft whine escaping his lips as he steps back. The soft, happy smile on his lips disappearing and turning into something sad as he looks back up at Dylan, brows furrowed and tight as he swipes the back of his hand over his lips. “I, I can’t Dyls. Not right now, not when we still haven’t – we need to talk about it, all of us before we decide anything, okay?” Mitch says firmly, but there’s a tremble in his voice that makes Dylan shake.

Dylan wants to say something, anything to put an end to the ache he can feel spreading through his chest, but Dylan can’t deal with this, with Mitch’s rejection, with having to see him tomorrow, seeing _Connor_.

So Dylan turns sharply and walks away, flat out ignoring Mitch’s yells for him to come back.

When he comes home, Matty’s already in bed, snoring with the door open and sleeping on top of the sheets. Ryan isn’t with him though, and while he probably should have gone home, Dylan isn’t surprised when he opens the door to his room and finds him passed out on Dylan’s bed with a bucket next to it.

It’s not until he comes back from the bathroom that he notices that Ryan is wearing a pair of Matty’s sweats and what looks to be an Otter’s shirt. And, it’s harder than he wants to admit fighting the irrational need to wake him up and demand he take off the shirt, because the number on Ryan’s chest is definitely not a 19 and Dylan really doesn’t need that kind of reminders right now.

But Ryan’s out cold, and there’s no way in hell Dylan goes on knowing he asked his other brother’s boyfriend to strip out of his shirt.

So Dylan goes to sleep, wishing September could come just a bit faster.

 

The wedding is lovely.

It’s not the best wedding Dylan’s been to, because Dylan’s been to a lot of weddings over his professional hockey career – most of them planned by couples who didn’t think blue and orange were the pinnacle of colours. But it’s his brother and John getting married, and maybe that’s enough to make it the best wedding – Dylan’s not quite sure about the requirements.

Mitch looks sharp in his blue suit and white pocket square, sitting in the chair next to Connor. Their heads are bent together, giggling softly but not quite quiet enough and Dylan notices his grandmother sending them foul looks when Connor inhales sharply during Ryan’s vows.

And then he’s walking down the aisle with one of the bride maids, and Dylan knows he’s supposed to like, support her or something, because they’re walking on grass and Dylan knows it’s shit to step on when you’re not wearing flat shoes. But just as they walk past their row, Connor reaches out for Mitch’s hand and brings it to his mouth to softly kiss his knuckles, and –

Dylan stumbles to the ground. Shannon is quick enough to let go of his arm as his knees give out, watching him fall with a resigned look on her face, “You know, Ryan said this might happen.” She says matter-of-factly, not even offering a hand as he struggles to his feet, cheeks burning and eyes permanently looking ahead.

“Yeah? He’s a shit brother.” Dylan grumbles, refusing to look back at Connor and Mitch. They make their way down the rest of the aisle without another hick-up, and Shannon kindly pats his back before she goes back out to find her wife.

Dylan sticks around to help people taxi to the reception, anything to avoid watching Connor and Mitch holding hand and crawling into a cab with Draisaitl who looks weirdly at ease with Mitch as he holds the door for the pair before sliding into the front seat himself.  

It’s not any better when Dylan finally gets to the venue.

Dylan’s not quite sure how he had missed all of the touches between the two of them. Connor cradling Mitch’s hip with his free hand as he sips his champagne, laughing with one of the few Isle players that actually decided to show up. Mitch circling the room and charming the rest of Dylan’s family until Dylan feels bad for being unsociable, before returning to Connor’s side for a quick kiss and an appetiser.

It’s obvious now, watching Mitch and Connor orbiting each other, soft touches and kisses shared between speeches, Connor sneaking the fish he refuses to even taste onto Mitch’s plate and beaming when he eats it with nothing but a roll of his eyes. Mitch sliding smoothly into Connor’s lap when Ryan comes by their table to check in with the Oilers, and –

Dylan feels a bit sick to his stomach.

The thought of Mitch and Connor being together, them getting the letters and reading them together – making fun of Dylan and laughing about his stupid crush – Dylan kissing Mitch in efforts not to be rejected by Connor, Mitch rejecting him because he already has the boyfriend Dylan wants.

 

Dylan holds out until the dinner is done, when John and Ryan have cut the cake and the older guests have started to leave. He’s been drinking steadily since the first glass of champagne and with the open bar just a few metres away, it doesn’t take him long to get past tipsy.

At some point, he notices neither Connor nor Mitch is around anymore, their paired seats at the Oilers’ table empty and with nothing but a pair of empty wine glasses scattered around dessert plates.

And Dylan doesn’t know why he tries again, when he’s already been rejected once in this weekend.

But somehow, he ends up outside leaning against Tito who’s laughing at something on his phone, and suddenly Dylan’s leaning in, just like he did that first time with Mitchy, but more like the second time, drunk and off centre, and Tito pulling away with a frown just before their lips can meet.

“Dude,” Tito forces out, a look of betrayal spreading across his face as he tightens his hand around his phone when it pings with another message, “Dylan, I’m dating Barzy, we’ve like, been together since 2014? That’s – you should know that.”

And Dylan _should_ probably know that.

He does remember playing on team Canada and listening to the jokes going around about Mat and Tito sneaking off to make out in one of the free rooms, tournaments where one of them was missing and the glued to his phone just in case the other texted. Mat’s elated laugh when the Isle drafted Tito at the end of first round, and the numerous snapchats of goofy smiles in badly lit bedrooms Dylan had gotten of the two of them when Mat was called up during last season.

Dylan doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse though. The thought of knowingly kissing Mat’s boyfriend at his brother’s wedding after being rejected by his ex who’s dating his teen-hood crush is such a fucked-up way to spend his weekend.

Dylan doesn’t pretend to apologise, not when Tito already looks to be halfway through a conversation with Mat that he’s sure is going to end with his ass kicked the next time he sees him.

So he slips back inside and goes directly to the bar and doesn’t leave until Matty has to drag him into a cab and tuck him into his bed with a sad look in his eyes.

Dylan doesn’t realise he’s been crying until Matty starts to wipe at his cheeks, a soft tsking sound leaving his mouth as he frowns, “Dyls, please. It’s gonna be alright, I promise.”

Dylan laughs but it sounds hollow as he shakes his head, “I fucked up Matty. I – how could I fuck up so badly?”

Matty climbs onto the other side of the bed, tucking himself against Dylan’s side until he’s surrounding him completely. “No, Dylan. You’re – you’re okay, yeah bro? Everything is going to be alright.”

Dylan coughs, his throat hurting terribly as Matty squeezes his middle, “It’s your fault you know,” he says hoarsely. “If it hadn’t been for those fucking letters, I wouldn’t have –“ Dylan cuts himself off. Because it’s not Matty’s fault for Dylan fucking up.

Matt probably shouldn’t have sent them, but Dylan should have behaved like a fucking adult and actually talked with Mitch and Connor about it instead of just pretending he was, what? In a relationship with Mitch? Which didn’t fucking work if Connor already knew Mitch was taken and not interested in Dylan.  

“I thought,” Matty says slowly, clearing his throat as he sits up, so he can lean over and meet Dylan’s eyes, “I thought you and Johnny had a nice talk. He told me to apologise, but I – and I am really sorry, Dyls. You have to know that, but I thought we were good.”

Dylan hears his voice breaking, and it’s a struggle to sit up but he still manages to, tucking Matty into his arms and holding him close as he sniffles quietly. “We are, Matty. I’m sorry I said that, it’s. This isn’t your and Ryan’s fault, okay? Johnny and I are good, it’s not. I fucked up with Mitchy, okay? And Connor, and Tito, and Barzy, but that’s like. Another fucking thing, alright? It would probably have happened even if you didn’t send the letters.”

“Dyls, we shouldn’t – “

“Shut up,” Dylan says softly as he tightens his arms around Matty, until they’re both just breathing heavily. “You always fucking make it about yourself, eh Matty? Can’t let me have something for myself,” Dylan laughs hoarsely.

“I don’t like it when you get like this,” Matty confesses quietly, leaning back until he’s squinting back at Dylan, “I don’t like when you get drunk because you’re sad. I thought the letters might help you get not-sad – uh, happy?”

Dylan can feel the exhaustion setting in, the bad mixture of busy days, late nights and too much alcohol pushing him towards sleep. “You know, there might have been a reason why I didn’t mail them, shithead,” Dylan yawns and scoots down until they’re both lying down properly.

Dylan’s already half asleep when he hears Matty mumble, “Yeah, because you’re so good at making good decisions for yourself.”

 

Matty’s gone when he wakes up.

It’s only ten and Dylan’s not quite sure why he’s already awake until he hears his phone vibrate again. He finds it tucked between the mattress and the bedframe, lighting up with another message just as Dylan gets ready to throw it across the room.

But despite the pounding head ache and the imminent urge to puke in his bed, Dylan does remember what he did yesterday, what he said and what he told Matty about what he had done. So Dylan blinks the sleep away and tries to be a fucking adult as he opens the messages.

**Mitch: Meet up at the Tims on Lakeshore**

**Mitch: first train back leaves at 12:45**

**Mitch: so we’ll be here until 12**

**Mitch: come by dyls**

**Connor: We need to talk.**

Dylan doesn’t really want to leave his bed, even less now that Mitch and Connor are waiting for him. But he gets up and only pukes once before he’s dressed and out of the door.

He’s halfway down the street when he hears someone yell, “You know, it’s probably not a good idea to call someone gross if you’re trying to tell them you like them.”

Dylan turns around with a sigh, watching Mikey McLeod walk closer with a tray of drinks in his hand and a half-eaten bear claw in his mouth. “Oh, is that the advice that got you Bastian?” Dylan calls back with a scowl, grunting when Mikey bumps their shoulders together.

“You say that like I’m not the one in a long-term relationship.” Mikey says with a grin before taking another bite of his pastry.

Dylan doesn’t know how he missed Mikey over the weekend, only seeing flashes of him glued to Bastian’s side when he wasn’t trying to embarrass his brother and Matty, which “My brother slept in his own bed last night, we were quite concerned.”

Dylan shrugs vaguely, “First time in a while, eh?”

Mikey scoffs, “Do you know how big the distance is between Edmonton and Philadelphia? Because I know, Dyls.”

They part ways after that, Mikey has to be back before Nate wakes with coffee for both them and their brothers, who apparently decided to hang out on the McLeod couch today.

 

Dylan is not running late, but it’s definitely past eleven when he finally gets there.

Connor and Mitch are tucked away in a corner, heads bent together over a plate of hash browns and a bagel. They look very at ease, calm and well-rested as they lean against each other, their fingers intertwined under the table only visible to Dylan because of the odd angle.

He orders a cup of coffee before dragging his feet to their table, sliding into the seat on the other side of the table as he waits for them to notice him.

Mitch looks up at him with a smile, like he knew he was there the entire time and had just been waiting for Dylan to acknowledge them. “Hey Dyls. I’m glad you came.” He says kindly and reaches out to cover Dylan’s hand with his, squeezing encouragingly.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were dating?” Dylan says in lieu of a greeting, his voice sharp as he stares at Mitch’s hand until he pulls it back. “I’m supposed to be your best friend, and you didn’t even bother telling me?”

It is not where Dylan thought this meeting would go, not when he still has the letters to explain. But it is something that’s been bothering since the wedding when it became apparent that they were in fact dating, and not just better friends than what Dylan had expected them to be.

Connor inhales sharply, his eyes going wide for just a second as he watches Mitch with a frown. When Mitch does nothing but shrug, he turns back to Dylan and says very carefully, “We uh, kinda thought you already knew?”

“What.”

But Mitch is nodding, a soft smile on his lips, “Yeah, like. The team knows, and Johnny hasn’t been on it for that long, but it’s definitely been mentioned in the group chat?”

“Ryan knows too?” Connor adds with a cough, “Everyone on the Oilers has known since, April I think? So we kinda just assumed he would have told you.”

They do look slightly embarrassed as they say this, cheeks red and smiles nervous as they scoot closer together. And Dylan can see how that makes sense, but -

“That doesn’t make it any better. You were supposed to tell me yourself, like an actual friend would have done!” Dylan scoffs and leans back in his chair as if he can physically distance himself from the pair.

Mitch clears his throat, looking a bit anxious as he says, “We uh, actually planned on telling you this summer, after the wedding you know. And then we got the letters, or Connor got his and then we came back to Toronto and mine was lying there. And like –“

Connor cuts him off with a fond roll of his eyes, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze before he turns back to Dylan, “We’ve known since the beginning that this might be a possibility, talked about bringing in a third, and keeping our options open if the right person came along. And then, you know.”

He’s smiling wide as he shrugs, turning that fond look on Dylan as his cheeks heat up again.

Dylan does not get it. “So you’re in an open relationship?” He asks confused, frowning as he looks between them, “Like you fuck other people when you’re not together?” And Dylan can help but shudder at the thought of someone coming between the two of them, taking a place that clearly isn’t theirs for the taking.

“Well, we would still be together. But, if that was something you would need from us, we could probably work towards us being okay with that. Right now, Mitch and I have been exclusive from when we made it official, and I don’t think that is going to change, at least not for me.”

Mitch shakes his head in agreement, a soft encouraging smile on his lips. But Dylan is still lost.

“So you’re, no. What are you talking about?”

“Like, just because we wouldn’t want to be with others, it doesn’t mean that you can’t if that’s what you want. We just want to be with you in any way possible.” Mitch explains slowly, his brows furrowed like he’s not sure why Dylan isn’t following him. And, _oh_.

“You’re uh, inviting me into your relationship?”

Connor laughs, once and abrupt. “Was that not. I thought that was obvious?”

“No, that.” Dylan inhales sharply, “It definitely wasn’t.”

“So you’re interested then?”

“In being boyfriends with the two of you? Yes.” Dylan says in a rush, his cheeks flaming as he looks from Connor to Mitch and back to Connor who’s smiling at him with a soft smile Dylan only remembers from Juniors when he won the scoring title. “If that’s something I can do, I would like that very much.” He adds in a calmer voice, like his heart isn’t close to tachycardia.

Mitch laughs, bright and happy as he leans into Connor who’s smiling just as wide, “I think we would like that as well, Dyls.” He says teasingly. Mitch brings their intertwined fingers across the table, so Dylan can cup them with his own hand, the three of them piled together.

 

They still have a bit of time before the train leaves – “You’re coming with us, right? I know it’s a bit soon for you to move in with us, but you can at least come by and see the place.” Mitch says with a grin, nudging Dylan’s shoulder until he nods, “Yeah, I guess I can spend a couple of days in Toronto with my boyfriends.” – and Dylan who’s slowly regaining his appetite is tearing into the lone bagel neither of them had touched.

Mitch has gone down to the station to buy another ticket, and Dylan is left with a pensive Connor who looks very conflicted.

“What’s going on in that brain of yours, Davo? Thinking about the season already?” He asks softly, nudging his shoulder until they both get up, their new order of coffees to-go in his hands.

“I’m –“ Connor grumbles, shrugging his jacket back on before he shakes his head, “It doesn’t really matter now, but. I read the letter and the things you wrote, and _Dyls._ ” He says pained as he steps outside, Dylan following closely behind. “I need you to know that if you had said something back then, I wouldn’t have said no, okay? I’ve always loved you, Dylan. Ever since you came to the team, and I know I was a weird kid, okay?”

“No, Davo, that’s not-“

“I was, it’s fine Dylan.” He says with a fond laugh, bumping their hips as they walk down the street. “It doesn’t bother me, not when it got me where I am today, but you just. You didn’t care about all of my weird habits and you didn’t make fun of me like I know the older guys did. I just, I would have loved getting that letter back then.”

And Dylan knows the letter wouldn’t have been written at that point, that it took Dylan almost five years to finish it. But Dylan also knows that’s not what Connor is saying.

“Oh.” Dylan says on an exhale, watching Connor bite his lip as he looks around them, making sure no one is staring directly at them before bringing Dylan’s hand to his lips, just like he had done to Mitch’s during the wedding, “I guess everything worked out in the end then.” Dylan adds, utterly fond and smiling softly as he bumps their foreheads together in the closest approximation of a kiss they could get away with in Mississauga.

But Connor gets it, smiling bright and happy as he links their fingers together, “Yeah, Dyls. I guess it did.”


End file.
